A Footstool
by E. S. Young
Summary: The tale of the ghost's lady and how she was thrown into a thrilling world of horror and sorrow where love is ever present but never returned. Entirely Leroux based with one sided EC, EOC, RC, and even OCOC.
1. A Brief Intorduction

**A Footstool**

By

_E. S. Young_

**A Brief Introduction **

After months of studying what could be called the art of writing a Mary Sue, months of extensive research, months of prepping my grammar, months of proofreading…I have returned to the this fandom with what are hopefully new and improved skills, as well as a completely Leroux-based story. There simply aren't enough of them out there, and I for one adore M. Leroux's Erik. He was the original, after all, and saying that Gerard Butler is "OMGz! waaaaaaaay betr than h1m!11one! Leroo is rong!1one" is highly unjust. If you prefer the 2004 movie instead of the original novel, then fine. That's your opinion and I will not try to change it –what gung-ho Voltaire fan _would?_ However, saying that it was a terrible book, that the movie is superior, that Gerik is the one and only Phantom, and that I and others are wrong for thinking otherwise is just plain rude, not to mention irritating. I like Butler, I really do, but only as an actor and definitely not as the Phantom, hence why I will hereby refer to him as 'Gerik' and nothing else. As a note, if you would care to have my full opinion of the 2004 movie, then visit the following web site:

http/www(dot)greatestjournal(dot)com/users/crazycharlie/4232(dot)html

Now, as a warning to those who have not read Leroux…ahah…you are in for a surprise. His Erik is quite unlike any adaptation you have ever seen, unless you've watched the silent film made in 1925 staring Lon Chaney (good for you if you have, by the way). He is not like sexy Gerik in the least, not in personality, and certainly not in physical appearance. That's all I will say on _that _matter. Also, and this is for those who have and haven't read the book, I am tweaking my normal writing style a bit and am attempting the journalistic, somewhat poetic form of writing that is Leroux. That's not to say that I'm trying to write exactly like him, because the writing of the 1800s rarely goes over well with the modern day reader, as I have learned in my AP Literature class. However, I will try to keep the dialogue true to the Victorian era, since anachronisms of any kind irk me to no end unless they're intentional for humorous reasons.

That said, as you may have guessed from the summary, I am basing this off of a quote from the book, several, in fact, but mainly one of Mme. Giry's: "_Well, I brought the footstool. Of course, it wasn't for himself he wanted it, but for his lady! But I never heard her nor saw her._"

Along with another: "_Some evenings, I find flowers in the box, a rose that must have been dropped from his lady's bodice…for he brings a lady with him sometimes; one day, they left a fan behind them._"

Also, in the epilogue, I believe, Leroux mentions that there was enough room for not one, but _two_ people in the column in Box Five where Erik is believed to have watched the operas.

My question is who _was _this mysterious lady? Some might think it was the wax dummy of Christine, but remember, dear readers, that this is Leroux and Wax!Christine was all ALW's idea, I believe. So, did the ghost's lady truly exist? Did the ghost really have a lady friend aside from his beloved Christine, or did he make her up? If so, then why? He may have done it simply to confuse everyone, however… weren't they confused enough already? Perhaps Mme. Giry said this to toy with the managers? Or maybe Gaston Leroux simply threw it into his novel, knowing that it would sprout an abundant number of plot bunnies? Or maybe it was an idea that Leroux didn't bother to develop. However, I doubt this.

Clearly, I have taken this idea and run with it. Know that I would never have done so if I did not think it somewhat original, after all, I believe I've only read one story that focus on the same topic. Then again, this fandom contains so much…insanity, I suppose one could call it, as of late, I tend to be a little biased and only read stories by authors I know. So, for all I know, this plot could be thoroughly played-out. However, before I go into a rant about Mary Sues that will progress into the issues I have with the new movie that will ultimately lead to a complaint about women's liberation and then a rant about the sexist geometry teacher that I had in tenth grade… I will stop and leave you with the story.

♪ ♪ ♪

**Notes**

…new and improved skills – I'm just curious to know how, exactly, something can be both new and improved? If it's new, then there has never been anything before it. However, if it's an improvement, then it _must_ have been something before it. So, which is it? This has nothing to do with the story, by the way. It's only to make you think, and if I've managed to do that, then I've at least achieved one of my writing goals. It may hurt at first, but for the most part, thinking is _good!_

Those who have not read Leroux – by the way, what are you doing reading this story? Turn off your computer this minute, go to your local book store, and buy a copy of Leroux's book. _Now. _And if you're broke or on a budget or simply cheap, then you can find an online copy of the novel easily. I know for a fact that TheFreeLibrary(dot)com has the complete work available for reading.

And one more thing before I leave you to the story: I have no idea how fast or slow updates will be, I'm afraid. I will try to keep them regular, but, as I have taken to writing every chapter by hand before typing them up, it may be a while before you see anything new. If a month goes by without an update, however, I will take the fic down and revert back to my original plan. It's the best I can do without a beta reader, gang.


	2. Mlle Jeanette Ninon’s Observations

**Prologue**

_**Mlle. Jeanette Ninon's Perfectly Dull Observations**_

"_To fear death is nothing other than to think oneself wise when one is not. For it is to think one knows what one does not know. No one knows whether death may not even turn out to be the greatest blessings of human beings. And yet people fear it as if they knew for certain it is the greatest evil._"

– Socrates

♪ ♪ ♪

If there was one thing Jeanette Ninon had learned in all her years as a servant, it was not to question her orders, no matter how bizarre they may be. Luckily, Jeanette's curiosity was rarely piqued. She was prompt, obedient, and polite, theoretically the quintessential maid. Some might have called her dull, possibly even boring. However, to Jeanette, being unwed and without a job was far worse than being considered boring. And so, she carried out her tasks, never once having to think twice about any of them.

The work was rather easy for a woman like Jeanette. At age thirty-two she had quite outgrown her imagination – not that she had had much of one to begin with. Growing up in a little gray house in a dreary neighborhood had rendered her quite bromidic.

Thus, Jeanette had obtained a position in the Castellaire household with little effort. At first there hadn't been a single problem. She had worked as a parlor maid, keeping the large manor almost frighteningly pristine. The tasks had been wearisome, but the pay was practically inspired. Jeanette couldn't possibly complain. Besides, any rational human being would chose to maintain a house rather than take up residence in the streets.

As a wealthy lawyer,M. Jacques Castellaire must have found an easy job in keeping his family, as well as his servants, clothed and fed. He was an excellent attorney, the father of two darling children, a faithful husband, and an active member of the church. And although he seemed somewhat unsure of himself at times, Jeanette had always thought him a good man.

When Jeanette had been introduced to Mme. Marfa Castellaire, she had wondered if the older woman had recently recovered from an illness. With her pale eyes watering and her pallor sickly, Mme. Castellaire – 'Madame' as Jeanette dutifully called her – looked terribly fragile. However, despite her wilted appearance, Madame was quite the matriarchal. Though never cruel to her servants, the woman gave imperious orders. Jeanette openly agreed with Madame, however. One had to be demanding when it came to running the Castellaire household, as many of the servants were not nearly as devoted to cleaning as Jeanette was.

However, Jeanette had to raise an eyebrow when Madame decided she was in need of a new lady's maid and was convinced that only a Russian would do. The former maid, a French woman by the name of Mme. Anouk Belmont, apparently had been rather disagreeable, according to Madame. Being of Russian decent, Madame had cursed herself for not hiring a maid from her homeland. Jeanette would have liked to have questioned this, but, being the dull human being that she was, the notion never occurred to her. Jeanette respected her employers' decisions and strictly forbid herself to question them, not even when Madame had hired her new maid – a young woman whose surname hardly seemed Russian to Jeanette. In truth, the only thing remotely Russian about the girl was the fact that her mother had been born and raised in the country.

From the snippets of gossip Jeanette had obtained from the rest of the staff, Sofiya Newton had been born to an English father and a Russian mother. The parents, however, had met in England and adored the country enough to want to raise a family there. Mlle. Newton had since then grown up, never once visiting her mother's homeland, and then traveled onward to France. Apparently, being of Russian decent was enough to satisfy Madame. Still, Jeanette could not conceal her astonishment when made the young woman's acquaintance.

With her blonde hair, fair skin, and glassy gray eyes, Sofiya Newton looked like an overgrown child's plaything. Oddly still, her voice was soft and tinkly like a small bell, exactly, Jeanette remarked, how one would expect a doll to sound, said toy was given a voice, of course, which was completely preposterous. In truth, Jeanette couldn't help but think Sofiya Newton something of an idiot. With that face and that voice it was only natural to assume that the child – Jeanette found difficulty in thinking of Sofiya as a woman – had a head as empty as a flowerpot, but Jeanette could not hold that against her. After all, being a maid required more obedience than intelligence.

Madame must have seen something in Sofiya, for the next thing Jeanette knew the child was doing the older woman's bidding, from styling hair to lacing up corsets. Sofiya tended to all of Mme. Castellaire's needs with allegiance that rivaled Jeanette. After Sofiya had lived under the Castellaire's roof for a month, Jeanette felt that there wasn't a task the girl would refuse.

The months dragged by, and Sofiya Newton stayed on in the Castellaire house, continuing to prove her worth at every chance she received. Jeanette still found herself pondering over the child from time to time. Not only were her doll-like face and questionable intelligence topics of interest; the girl's personality was intriguing as well. Sofiya was given to extreme bouts of garrulity when the conversation happened to sway in the direction of a subject she was well educated in – and, as ill fitting as it might seem, Sofiya proved to be erudite in many areas. Oddly, however, as talkative as she would be one moment, the next thing Jeanette knew, Sofiya would grow so quiet it was if she were a mute. The behavior was quite peculiar, but Jeanette didn't dwell on it least it should interfere with her work.

Before Jeanette knew it, two years had passed, and Mme. Marfa Castellaire passed with them. Despite the delicate condition of the woman, her death came as a shock. She had suffered through various illnesses during her lifetime. From the measles to diphtheria, Madame had overcome them all. In truth, Jeanette was quite certain that her employer had undergone every type of remedy known to man. Mme. Castellaire had several series of scars along her arms from where the physician's scarificator had scraped against her skin during phlebotomy treatments, her skin had become ashen from bloodletting procedures, and she looked much older than her thirty-six years. But despite surviving so many deadly sicknesses (and their equally deadly treatments) Madame had at last been taken from her family by a bout of pneumonia.

M. Castellaire had been devastated by the loss of his wife. At first Jeanette feared that he would turn to the bottle as a source of comfort, but she was consoled, albeit very slightly, when M. Castellaire took to hiding away in his office and speaking to no one. No one, Jeanette noted, except for Sofiya Newton. But M. Castellaire had loved his wife dearly, she told herself. He was merely seeking solace in Sofiya, thinking that the lady's maid had been closest with her mistress. Yes, Jeanette convinced herself, by speaking with Sofiya Newton for hours at a time, M. Castellaire was simply expressing his grief in the only way he knew how.

But if this was true, then why had the house suddenly fallen victim to hideous rumors that spoke of a relationship between M. Jacques Castellaire and Mlle. Sofiya Newton?

♪ ♪ ♪

Was that boring? Good! That means that Jeanette has been kept in character, which is quite a relief for me. Chapters should be longer (not to mention more interesting) in the future, this one was simply written so several of the main characters could be introduced and a bit of back-story could be told all in the one setting. Trust me, it's best to get this stuff out now instead of trying to make it known throughout the real story.

**Notes**

Marfa – it's a Russian name that literally means "mistress of the house." Rather fitting, I think.

Mme. Anouk Belmont – I didn't chose her first name because of the movie _Chocolat_, just so you know, though it would be perfectly understandable to think that, considering how much I enjoyed the film.

Scarificator – used during the Victorian era, this was basically a box containing small, sharp blades, and it was used to scratch a person's skin, causing them to bleed. Dunno about you guys, but I've always pictured it as looking like a miniature cheese grater.

**Disclaimer:** The novel, _The Phantom of the Opera_,and all of its characters and the like are property of Gaston Leroux. Any interesting and/or historical facts that may take place in this story are true, despite how implausible some of them may seem. All historical events, clothing, jargon, etc. are as accurate as they can be (because, as odd as it sounds, research is fun!). 

**A Simple Request from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-is, even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna marree u!11 erik n sofiya r teh ulteemate OTP!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can.


	3. The Gift of a Hand

**Chapter I**

_**The Gift of a Hand**_

Before you read any further, please take note that Sofiya Newton's description in this chapter will be slightly different from the previous one. It might even border on Mary Sue-ish. However, rest assured that this is my intention. Sofiya has no supernatural powers, special talents, or enchanting beauty. The first part of this chapter is told from Jacques Castellaire's point of view, which will differ from Jeanette's quite a bit. He has been grieving over the loss of his wife and, as of late, has seen her personal maid in a new light. He is very much in love with Sofiya at this point, and therefore it would make sense for him to see her as some goddess of unearthly radiance, and I've always felt that most people see the ones they love as being beautiful no matter what. Know, however, that while most Phantom stories focus mainly on this idea, that is not the cynosure of _this _story. Sure, it's a nice concept, and I think we should all strive to see the beauty in people, but it's been done a countless number of times, and most of you already know my views on tautology.

♪ ♪ ♪

_**Paris, France, 1879**_

"Really, Jacques, you needn't spend so much on me."

"Is it not to your liking, my dear?"

"Oh no," Sofiya hastened to assure him. "It's exquisite! And so large – I would hate to think of the price."

Jacques Castellaire stared down at his fiancée's (he used the term tentatively) left hand. There upon her ring finger was a gleaming band of gold adorned with one of the largest diamonds Jacques had been able to find. Admittedly the stone had cost him a small fortune, but seeing the ring environ Sofiya's delicate finger made things like cost seem trifle and pushed them to the back of Jacques' mind. Nearly everything became a bagatelle when he was with Sofiya. Her clothing, her jewels, and any other requirements – Jacques knew that, whatever it was, he would gladly pay for it if Sofiya only mentioned that bottle of perfume or that lovely hat she had seen on display the other day. She might have said "I found Dostoevsky's _Crime and Punishment _to be a bit of an ennui," but Jacques would have only had ears for "Dostoevsky's _Crime and Punishment_" and would have rushed out to purchase a copy of the novel.

Sofiya never refused any of his gifts, though she rarely asked for any of them. Still, even when she was a maid she had always seemed pleased whenever he presented her with this or that. But engagement rings, Jacques realized, were different from perfume and hats and books. By wearing an engagement ring a person was making an agreement, scheduling an appointment they could not fail to miss. Unlike wedding bands that bound two people to one another, an engagement ring, Jacques had always felt, merely tied _one _person to a promise. Were Sofiya to keep that divine ring on her pearly finger, she would thereby be promising him, Jacques, that she would one day give him her hand in marriage. But Sofiya had yet to make that vow, for she took the ring and gently placed in its box, securely wedging it between two black velvet cushions. Her eyes were fixated on the piece of jewelry as she placed it in his palm and quietly said, "You shouldn't have, Jacques."

This was not said in the playfully insincere way that is oftentimes used by those who truly adore a gift but wish to appear polite, nor was it the soft, awed tone of a person who is grateful beyond belief. No, Sofiya's voice was uncharacteristically icy and stern with just the smallest hint of disbelief. It was as if she was telling him, quite plainly, that he really should _not _have purchased that ring.

"Is…is there anything wrong, Sofiya, dear?" Jacques asked uncomfortably.

"Does this mean," she murmured, not meeting his eyes, "that…you are proposing to me?"

"That is what an engagement ring usually means, yes," he replied with somewhat forced warmth.

They sat there, silence enveloping them like an unwelcome fog. Sofiya stared at the diamond. Jacques stared at her, willing her magnificent gray eyes to meet his own dark brown ones.

As he watched Sofiya gaze downward in tacit debate, Jacques decided that it would be best if he left the quondam maid – at the moment, it would be wrong to think of her as anything else – to her thoughts. No matter how much the eagerness for an answer was feasting on his patience, Jacques knew that no good would come from badgering the girl. Instead he leaned back in his chair and partook in a quiet observation of his own.

Sofiya was, to say the least, a beautiful specimen to study. Certainly anyone with eyes could see that – Jacques had upon first meeting the girl, though, he could no help but think indignantly, that was not the reason she had been hired. Sofiya was qualified and dependable as it was; her comeliness was simply a pleasant addition.

His mind picked itself up and wandered away unnoticed as he watched the afternoon sunlight as it filtered through the gauze curtains and cast his indecisive maid in an enchanting aura. For a moment, her crown of hair appeared to be as golden as an angel's halo. Behind several wisps of that hair Jacques could see a fair, heart-shaped face that, at the moment, was utterly devoid of emotion. Beneath a pair of long, fluttering lashes was a pair of gray almonds that were her eyes.

His gaze lingered on her nose – small and upturned ever so slightly – for a time before at last drifting downward to his favorite feature: her lips. Jacques Castellar knew – and this was something he would admit to himself and only when he was certain that the words would not spill from his mouth – that he loved Sofiya Newton's lips above all. The rest of the girl was very pretty, indeed, but her lips outshone everything else. Like two rose petals, they were curved just right. The upper lip was remarkably small, making the lower one appear deceptively fuller, but together they formed a small moue that sulked in a most adorable fashion.

It reminded him of Marfa's mouth.

It shamed him to think that not even a year had followed his wife's death before his infatuation with Sofiya had began. How unlawful he was! His poor Marfa had been nothing but loyal to him, completely devoted until the end, and he chose to repay her by dallying with the maid? Neither Marfa, nor Sofiya, nor any other woman deserved a man such as he.

But with Sofiya came thoughts of Marfa, he reminded himself. He saw his wife when he looked at Sofiya – his precious, departed wife as well as a new one. He desired the little maid because he longed for Marfa so, for her maternalism, her lips…

Jacques had often fancied telling Sofiya about his feelings regarding her lips, but he had always dashed the notion when he realized how pathetically lovesick it sounded. Informing the maid – his dear wife's maid, no less! – that he took great pleasure in staring at her mouth was no way to win the young lady's heart. If he were to tell Sofiya how deep his fascination for a sole characteristic ran, then she would surely wash her hands of him. So Jacques kept his unexplainable love concealed within the darkest regions of his mind, swearing himself never to reveal it lest Sofiya think him mad.

He cleared his throat as both a distraction from his unlawful thoughts and a means of ridding himself of the inconvenient dam of mucus that seemed to have built up in a matter of seconds. Sofiya, to Jacques's mounting embarrassment, took it as a signal of his impatience and snapped her head up at once.

"Forgive me, I was swept up in my thoughts," she apologized hastily, sweeping a blonde lock behind her ear.

"Quite all right," assured Jacques gently.

"No," she said shortly, causing a shower of maroon skirts to rain to the floor as she rose from her seat. "It is anything but. It shouldn't take me that long to give you an answer, should it? Of course not," she said before Jacques could reply. "After all, your question was simple enough, therefore, its response should be equally facile; either a yes or a no, correct?"

"I suppo – ah, well…" Jacques coughed, bewildered by her diction and the situation itself, and lowered his eyes. He looked at his hands, which still clasped the ring box and was suddenly reminded of a clam encasing its pearl to protect it from harm.

"Sofiya," he began in an attempt to assuage the clearly distressed girl, but she quickly intervened.

"Jacques, please, do not think me unappreciative. The ring…it's lovely, and as for your proposal…I…I am flattered – honored, darling, it's only that –"

But whatever 'it' was exactly Jacques never knew, for at that moment their conversation was forestalled by a polite knocking at the parlor door.

"Yes?" he inquired, turning his head toward the noise.

A small figure stepped into the room.

"Eloise," Jacques greeted, smiling warmly at his eldest child and only daughter.

"Good afternoon, Father," Eloise returned, sinking into a curtsey. Her light blue eyes flickered to the young maid. "Mlle. Newton."

Sofiya gifted the child with the briefest of nods before turning back to Jacques and beseeching him to give her leave to go.

"So soon?" His thick eyebrows knit in confusion.

"Please," she entreated. "I have much to busy myself with."

"Sofiya, you know that, now, you are no more a servant in this house than my dear Eloise is."

She smiled modestly. "I merely meant that I have several things to tend to. We are going out this evening, yes?"

"Of course," Jacques assured her.

"Then I must ready myself at once."

"Dear, we aren't leaving for another three hours!"

"All the more reason to begin preparations now."

"Oh. Very well, then," Jacques allowed, albeit, reluctantly. "Be off with you."

Nodding her thanks and sparing not another moment, the girl began her retreat only to be called into abeyance, her porcelain hand frozen on the doorknob.

"Sofiya?" Jacques repeated, feeling deplorably hopefully. "I've merely noticed…my offer…I didn't receive an answer."

He chose not to acknowledge the look of puzzlement that graced Eloise's face, devoting his attention entirely to the woman who seemed so keen to make an exit.

"Jacques, I…" But her speech engine guttered and stalled, and it was only after Jacques slipped the ring box into his pocket did Sofiya's voice begin to work again.

"May I think about it…for a while?"

♪ ♪ ♪

"The blue one, I think, Jeanette. Thank you."

Sofiya Newton sat before a hansom vanity in her newly acquired boudoir carefully pinning her hair into place. She had taken to residing in the bedroom – so lovely with its lilac walls and mahogany paneling – on the orders of M. Castellaire. Though he had never given and indication of it, Sofiya often suspected that he had given her the comfortably furnished room as a token of his affection. If this was true, Sofiya knew that she would not mind in the least, for she, like most, enjoyed her comfort. She adored fine clothing and glittering jewels, though she herself would never purchase the trinkets unless she thought they could harbor some type of use.

What nettled Sofiya was that ring, that accursed, beautiful ring that had, in one fleeting instant, wreaked havoc upon her world, leaving it buried under miles of debris and triturated beyond recognition. Sofiya had known that, the moment she had set eyes on the diamond, that it would no longer be the same between her and Jacques. Their childish liaison would cease to exist, replaced instead with a far more dangerous form of intimacy.

Sofiya was no coquette, and even if she had been one, Jacques was such a charming man, she would have found difficulty in taking advantage of his hospitality. In truth, she found him to be quite companionable. Polite, generous, and trusting – he was the quintessential gentleman. What's more, he was handsome. Jacques had managed to avoid Time for the most part, escaping with only a few streaks of gray in his full, black hair and moustache and several creases around his eyes and mouth. Any woman would have eaten up the opportunity to make him her husband with voracious speed, and yet she, Sofiya, had fled at the sight of his engagement ring.

Did she fear marriage? No, the idea of wedlock did not upset her in the least; it was almost appealing, even. She did not care for the idea of dying alone, albeit, that was not to say that moments of solitude were unwelcome. But if it was not marriage that distressed her so, then what was it? Jacques?

At once Sofiya scolded herself for such foolishness.

_Of course. There is nothing more terrifying than a kind and giving man._

Scowling at her reflection, Sofiya secured another lock.

Eloise, whether the child knew it or not, had excellent timing. Despite finding her to be more trouble than she was worth – a feeling Sofiya knew was mutual – Sofiya could not help but be grateful for Eloise's interruption. Knowing that Jacques was expecting an answer that she could not give and had been expecting said answer for several minutes, Sofiya had hastened for time, ransacking her brain for a solution to her problem when it had come knocking at the door.

Ashamed of using a child to escape a marriage proposal made by a man she obviously cared for caused Sofiya to jab a hairpin a little too forcefully at her scalp. She pursed her lips but directed her frustration toward her mirror rather than the instrument that had inflicted the pain.

"Take care, Mademoiselle," Jeanette said, though one could hardly consider it a reprimand when her voice barely rose above its normal alto level.

"Please, Jeanette, you needn't call me that," Sofiya insisted, watching the willowy, auburn-haired maid stride across the bedroom with a gown of royal blue fabric draped neatly across her arms.

"You are no longer a servant, but a guest in M. Castellaire's home," Jeanette stated mechanically, laying the dress on the bed. "It's my duty to treat you as such."

"Oh, very well," Sofiya muttered with a soft sigh of vexation. She stood and walked over to her bed where she gripped the ornate baseboard and looked over her white shoulders at Jeanette. Ever acquiescent, the maid wasted no time in lacing up Sofiya's corset.

"I don't recommend becoming too comfortable," Sofiya gasped each time a string was tugged, "with calling me 'Mademoiselle,' anyway, for I suspect I'll be 'Madame' soon enough."

It wasn't necessarily true, but, as is human nature, Sofiya felt the need to discuss her predicament with someone and thus vent her concerns and frustrations out on them. Perhaps they would be interested in her problem and offer even a small sliver of advice, though with Jeanette, whose curiosity was never piqued and whose only passion appeared to be housework, Sofiya doubted this. Needless to say, she was stunned when the maid gave a soft "Oh?" that only _suggested _the tiniest possible iota of intrigue. It wasn't much, Sofiya admitted. In a moment of desperation she might have taken an "Oh" of feigned interest for an "Oh" that begged her, however subtly, to continue. Either way, Sofiya rattled on, eager to unload her problem on someone else's shoulders.

"M. Castellaire has asked for my hand in marriage."

"I see," was all Jeanette had to say.

"I didn't say yes," Sofiya continued, stooping to pull on a pair of stockings now that her chest and waist were securely confined to a prison of fabric and whalebone. "But I didn't say no, either. Why, I didn't say anything at all! I asked him to give me time to think about it!"

"Hmm…" The maid busied herself by helping Sofiya don layer after layer of suffocating petticoats.

"I suppose you think me foolish," Sofiya murmured quietly, "for not accepting his offer at once."

"Madame left us no more than a year ago," Jeanette said, assisting the smaller woman with an unwieldy hoopskirt. "M. Castellaire's proposal…" She hesitated, causing Sofiya's eyebrows to rise with interest. "…is…unexpected, given the conditions. Therefore, your reluctance to answer is…understandable."

Sofiya nodded vaguely, her eyes growing dull with clouds of cogitation as she gazed off at some distant point that only she could see. Some part of her was aware of Jeanette instructing her to lift her arms, but, for the most part, Sofiya only had thoughts for Jacques.

♪ ♪ ♪

At age fourteen, throwing a temper tantrum was quite beyond a young lady, especially one as urbane as Eloise Castellaire was. For one like her, an outburst of any kind was out of the question. What would people have thought if they ever learned that charming Eloise had been so livid upon hearing about her father's marriage proposal that she had stormed into her bedroom and, in a most unladylike fashion, hurled one of her China dolls at the wall?

The result of this uncharacteristic abuse was a thin crack along the toy's white forehead and a missing little finger. Eloise picked the doll up from its disgraceful station on the floor, taking time to untangle its ringlets and smooth its rumpled pinafore before returning the doll to its rightful place: on the bed, settled cozily amongst a neatly arranged pile of pillows. She paused for a moment to absorb the image of the porcelain figure: dark curls and eyes – a complete contrast to her own pale blue orbs and colorless hair – a small retroussé nose and heart-shaped lips…

It took several seconds for Eloise to realize that the last two features belonged not only to her doll but to Mlle. Newton as well, the very person who had so infuriated Eloise that the girl had performed a terribly childish act. Aghast, she withdrew her hand so quickly the doll tipped over onto its side, its stiff body soundlessly making contact with the mattress. The figure stared at nothing, its eyes deep but sightless. Again Eloise found herself comparing her doll to her father's servant. Within seconds her blood threatened to over boil, so great was her rage.

The idea of her father remarrying – and to the hired help, no less! – was an insult to the family, but also more importantly, to her mother's name. It had been a year – no, less than ten months since Death had arrived to extinguish the feeble candle that was her mother's life and escort her soul to Heaven. Barely a month later, Sofiya Newton had been spotted alone with Eloise's father, a man who was in ostensible mourning.

_Mourning, ha! Courting is much more befitting._

He certainly had been courting Mlle. Newton, though her elders had oft told Eloise that the little maid had been a wonderful companion during Jacques Castellaire's hour of need and that he simply wanted to repay her by giving all he thought she deserved.

_He thinks she deserves to be his bride? _her mind scoffed in outrage.

Upon seeing her enter the parlor, Eloise's father had been quick to whisk the piece of jewelry out of sight, but not before Eloise's line of vision had snagged on a circular, golden hook that offered a glittering diamond as bait. A second glance had not been necessary; one even as young as Eloise's little brother Bastien could identify an engagement ring.

The thought of her sibling only surfeited the flames of Eloise's fury. The boy had a meager four summers to count. A child so small needed a mother – a title that Eloise doubted Mlle. Newton could live up to. The maid barely qualified as an adult herself! How could she be expected to raise a family when her own juvenility was clearly extant?

_Perhaps Father has gone mad…?_ Eloise did not want to hear such distressing things, even within the safe confines of her mind, but want proved an ill-crafted barrier when an army of thoughts were determined to carry out an invasion. And so, Eloise found herself pondering over the various ways her father may have been driven to insanity. The loss of her mother may have been too great a blow for him to handle. She toyed with the idea that her father might have been mad all along, and that he conspired with Mlle. Newton and formed several machinations to do away with Eloise's mother, each one more wicked than the last. But the notion was soon devoid of her father, leaving only Mlle. Newton, the servant, the temptress, the murderess…

_Has she bewitched him?_ Eloise ventured wildly, but she quickly dashed the thought, for Mlle. Newton was much too empty-headed to delve into a sinful practice of any kind.

Eloise eyed the disheveled doll beside her, idly fingering the pale blue ribbon in its hair. Mlle. Newton and the toy truly _were _akin to one another. Both were small and delicate. Neither questioned their orders for neither had a mind to do so, though that was not what one would consider a negative trait. The way the maid spoke in that high, sweet voice… if dolls were capable of speech, Eloise felt certain that they would sound like Mlle. Newton. What's more, the doll had once been a pretty little plaything for Eloise, and now the maid was one for Eloise's father.

He wanted a toy, the girl determined, something that would sit quietly and be pleasing to the eye whenever company stopped by; he wanted a sort of _dummy _that would replace her mother. Well, that was a part Mlle. Newton could play splendidly.

However, Eloise remembered, there was one attractive aspect about dolls: In most cases, children outgrew them.

♪ ♪ ♪

Again, do not expect this to be updated regularly. The fact that I am actually on schedule with this chapter surprises me greatly. Know that, however, updates _will _occur on Sundays…just not _every _Sunday. Also, I recently (as in, this past Wednesday) had the pleasure of seeing the ALW musical, as well as the wonderfully talented Gary Mauer as the Phantom. I'm still in awe, needless to say. And anyone who thinks that Erik is really kind and gentle and that Raoul would abuse Christine…Mauer!Phantom would completely change your opinions. He chased Christine (Marie Danvers) around, grabbed her, shook her, screamed at her, and came close to backhanding her a few times. Yet his love for her was still undeniable and his heart was obviously shattered in the end, which goes to show you what an amazing actor Gary Mauer is. :) I am telling you guys this because now I do not feel nearly as uncomfortable about my characterization of Erik, who will, I assure you, make an appearance in the next installment.

**Notes**

"It's exquisite! And so large…" - having just now realized what this line could imply, know that a sexual innuendo was not my original intent, but you guys can feel free to think them, if you wish.

Crime and Punishment - I do not own the novel; all credit goes to Fyodor Dostoevsky. That said, while I do not despise the book, it is not one of my favorites. However, unlike Sofiya – or Jacques's interpretation of her, I should say--I didn't find the book to be boring. I just thought that Raskolnikov needed to die (or at the very least go away and never come back) after the first three pages. Aside from him, I very much enjoyed the story.

…as golden as an angel's halo - as much as I love Jacques, I am indescribably glad that I won't be writing from his POV very often. Honestly, though, if you think about it, the poor guy's in serious mourning over the loss of his wife and is in desperate need of a replacement companion. Therefore he's only focusing on a Sofiya's good qualities and, obviously, exaggerating them to sort of give himself an excuse as to why he likes her so much.

Like two rose petals… - Jacques...you're killing me, dearest, you really are.

**A Simple Request from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-is, even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna marree u!11 erik n sofiya r teh ulteemate OTP!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can.


	4. Suffocation by Means of Affection

**Chapter II**

**_Suffocation by Means of Affection_**

"_Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught,  
And spent my little life without a thought,  
And am amazed that Death, that tyrant grim,  
Should think of me, who never thought of him_."  
–René Francois Regnier

♪ ♪ ♪

There was once a time in Sofiya's life when she had adored public outings – when she had lived for them, in fact. To her, nothing had been more delightful than going to the theatre, attending a ball, or merely taking a nice stroll through the park. Those halcyon days of her youth were gone, however, and had been for several years, now. It was best not to dwell on such dreary topics, though, not when there were more pressing matters to undertake.

Jacques had yet to speak of his marriage proposal, though Sofiya knew for certain that it was on his mind. She could feel the man's tense eagerness all the way to the Opera; he practically buzzed with it. His eyes had been on her throughout the entire carriage ride, this she knew despite his attempts to appear nonchalant. It was at the point that Sofiya began to wonder if he was, perhaps, just a tiny bit…frightened? Of what she did not know. Rejection, disrespecting his cherished late wife, what the public would think, women in general – there were no boundaries to the list of possibilities.

She stole a glance at him, keeping her eyelids lowered and her head bowed so Jacques would not detect her thievery. There was no call for secrecy. M. Castellaire's dark eyes were turned intently towards the window of the carriage. His attention was, or appeared to be, focused on what lay outside the confines of the hansom. Yet there was no doubting the unease that gripped him. He twisted his walking stick in his hands, his thick eyebrows knit perturbedly, and every few seconds his eyes would flick to her, remaining stationary only long enough to soak up her image. The cold, bitter taste of guilt began to flood Sofiya's mouth, but she refused to let it affect her. She had every right to prolong making her decision, every right to decline…

Jacques was ignorant to these rights, she chastised herself, feeling both imbecilic and conceited for being so forgetful. She with the notorious memory was ashamed of making such a horrendous error, thinking herself a truly selfish creature indeed.

♪ ♪ ♪

"Jeanette! _Jeanette!_"

The maid had barely closed the door to Mlle. Newton's bedroom before a trio of servant girls ambushed her. Chattie, Dorene, and Faye – three maids who were as young and simple-minded as Mlle. Newton, though not nearly as peculiar. They were each hungry for gossip, eager to eat away at her unvoiced news with voracious speed.

Jeanette, not accustomed to being the object of attention and feeling rather overwhelmed, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. A soft sigh escaped her, expressing both her physical exhaustion and how weary she was of the silly girls that now surrounded her.

"Jeanette, you're Sofiya's maid, aren't you?" Faye pressed, breathless with excitement. "Do you know where she could be?"

Jeanette scowled – her _maid?_ – but resisted the impulse to correct the girl and instead, as it was her nature to fulfill any request, answered the question.

"She and M. Castellaire left for the Opera several minutes ago."

"_Ooh_," Chattie breathed, all aquiver. "They're going on outings together? That means it _must _be true!"

Not one to indulge in gossip, Jeanette said nothing.

"Oh, they've been attending social events together for _ages_," Dorene said matter-of-factly. "That doesn't mean they're _engaged_."

"But they're always in each other's company," insisted Chattie. "That makes them lovers, at the very least."

"I highly doubt that, after only a year without Madame, M. Castellaire would take a new wife."

"You're only jealous of Sofiya," Faye accused suddenly.

"You mean to say that your own skin is not the slightest bit green, Faye?" Dorene coolly retorted.

"Of course not!"

Jeanette could not bring herself to tell them of M. Castellaire's proposal to Sofiya Newton. It was as if the girls' prattling had stunned her, leaving her feeling quite unlike herself. She was uncertain as to what, exactly, had brought on these bizarre emotions – melancholy, resentment, chagrin – but she now felt as though she had…awakened from a deep slumber and her stoic nature had been compromised.

But why? Why had she suddenly become the victim of such foreign emotions?

Jeanette bowed her head, pressing her thumb, middle, and index fingers to her temple as she attempted to clear her foggy mind, but M. Castellaire's infatuation with Mlle. Newton was extant, an unsettling reminder of things she could not yet comprehend.

She did know, however, that she had to escape Chattie, Faye, and Dorene. The maids' surrounded her with their inane babbling, making the hallway unbearably stuffy. She quickly excused herself and hurried out of sight, a jumble of skirts and conflicting emotions.

♪ ♪ ♪

It was strange how one simple gesture could bring on a vertiginous episode such as the one Sofiya experienced. Jacques had merely offered her his arm as she alighted from the carriage – nothing more! –yet in one instant Sofiya found herself alarmingly close to feinting. Touching the tips of her fingers to her forehead, she paused in mid-step, her tiny frame vacillating ever so slightly. At once Jacques leapt to her aid.

"My dear, are you well?"

Her mind was foggy.

"Oh…yes. Yes, I'm…fine."

"Would you rather return home? We needn't attend the opera tonight, if you are ill."

"What?" Sofiya asked blearily. Then, as if awakening from a captivating dream she stood erect and, blinking rapidly, demurred, "No! Oh, no, _no_. That's quite all right, Jacques, I'm fine."

"Are you certain?" he pressed.

"Yes, of course," she assured him. "After all, I would hate for you to miss…oh, what is it we're seeing, again?"

"_Orphée aux Enfers_," Jacques hurriedly replied, ushering her into the building before her anticipated collapse. "A comedy – one I'm sure will be to your liking."

"I know it will be."

Jacques paused, his moustache twitching in bewilderment.

"I don't believe I've taken you to a comedy before."

"Oh!" Sofiya flushed. "Oh, no. You _haven't_. I merely meant that I…_like _a bit of humor once in a while and that this will be a welcome relief from all of those drama you took me to – not that I detest drama," she quickly amended. "It's all very exciting – but it's suppose to be, isn't it? Or else it wouldn't be a drama. Oh, what I mean to say is of _course _it's dramatic, it's _supposed _to be dramatic, _that's _why they call it _theatre_."

Jacques gifted her with an ersatz smile, clearly not making sense of her idle talk but relieved that she appeared to have recovered from her bout of dizziness. He shook his head at her, his eyes scintillating with amusement, and once again presented his arm.

Sofiya hesitated, staring at the limb as if she feared that by touching it she would come into contact with some ghastly disease.

_Don't be so childish!_

With a weak smile of her own she looped her frangible arm through Jacques's sturdy one and nodded for him to lead her into the grand opera house.

Once in the foyer, a prying, middle-aged couple – the Moteres, Sofiya recalled – beleaguered them. Sofiya had hoped to suggest to Jacques that they find their seats now before they were trapped within the thick walls of the crowd, but now, it appeared, she was too late. With an internal sigh she goaded her features into a façade of attentiveness, only picking up fragments of the gossip Mme. Motere had to disseminate. Instead she chose to see how many blue topaz stones she could count on Mme. Motere's necklace – the sort of game she had previously thought to be a mere ephemera of her childhood.

Meanwhile, Mme. Motere, loath to acknowledge a plebeian such as Sofiya, kept her hazel eyes fixed on Jacques, asking how the children were, how he was fairing, and, more than once, if he would fancy meeting an eligible lady friend of hers. Upon hearing this question, Jacques would always smile and politely decline the offer.

M. Motere took this opportunity to make causerie with Jacques, asking if he had heard the latest tale involving an acquaintance of theirs, a M. Herriot, and his wife Abrial. Momentarily pausing in her counting game – twelve already, though by now she had begun to doubt the jewels' authenticity – Sofiya recalled hearing that the wife had disappeared one night. Rumors spoke of a kidnapping…

"As it turns out," M. Motere explained, "Abrial wasn't kidnapped after all!" His gray eyes shone with eagerness. "Word has it she _ran away _with a former beau, completely deserting her family."

"Those poor children," cried Mme. Motere with sympathy that was not entirely genuine. "I can't understand why any woman would do such a thing – she had everything she could ever want!"

"Perhaps she was seduced by this gentleman friend…?" Jacques ventured.

"Yes, perhaps," Mme. Motere agreed airily, her tone dubious. "Though Abrial always _did _seem rather deceptive, never one to talk, like she was _hiding_ something."

"A woman should never keep secrets from her husband," M. Motere stated haughtily.

The remark shook Sofiya from the boughs of her reverie, sending her mind tumbling back to the Palais Garnier with a painfully aware crash. Before she knew what was happening, her opinion came spewing forth with embarrassing force.

"No secrets? Not even one? What if the wife has a reason for keeping them? What if she is deceitful because, for whatever reason, it is for the good of her husband?"

The others stared. Mme. Motere's eyebrows rose. Sofiya sunk her teeth into her tongue, praying that that would keep her from bringing further embarrassment to Jacques.

Not to her complete surprise, though she _was _caught off guard when a palm pressed gently against the small of her back, Jacques, ever the valiant knight prepared to slay her dragonish faux pas, came to her rescue. Laughing heartily as if he found her rant to be a highly amusing anecdote, Jacques pulled Sofiya close to his side and said jovially, "An excellent point, my dear, though I doubt Mme. Motere has anything to hide from _her _husband – " M. Motere gave a sharp nod " – and I know that _you _have not a fraudulent bone in your entire body!"

Sofiya blanched.

It suddenly felt as if her corset was too tight; the bodkins in her hair prickled at her scalp like a thorny crown. Surly she must have been bleeding? No! No, she was overreacting – nothing more. Still…it would be best to get away – she _had _to escape – before she made a spectacle of herself…and Jacques.

_Jacques…_

He was too close, far too close, suffocating her with his presence, his very aroma – that awful cologne of his – overwhelming her senses. If felt as if he had clamped a hand over her face rather than her back. Her fragile airway was being crushed! _I have to leave! _But those insufferable Moteres were still intent on satisfying their thirst for pointless defamation.

_What to do?_ she fretted silently, her distress becoming increasingly apparent. She was already wringing her hands, her little fingers twisted into abstract positions. It would only be a matter of time before she was reduced to an ebulliently garrulous ninny.

Mme. Motere was looking at her.

_Oh God! Why? Why did Jacques have to say such a thing? Why did _I?_ Had I only kept silent… Dear God, what am I to do? If I stay here any longer, they're certain to suspect –_

"Sofiya?"

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" The question was barely more than a gust of air.

Jacques withdrew his hand from her shoulder, his brow creased and his jaw taunt with concern.

Sofiya quickly glanced between him and the Moteres.

"I think I saw a familiar face – a friend – Mlle. Gounnoit." Her voice was monotonous. "It would be rude of me to pretend I hadn't. I should say hello."

"Oh. Very well," Jacques allowed, utterly perplexed. "Would you like me to escort you?"

"No," she replied much too quickly, for Jacques and the Moteres all surveyed her as if she belonged in an asylum. Blushing, she attempted to explain. "Thank you, but no. I shall only be a moment, and I would hate for you to miss your opportunity to talk with the Moteres. After all, just the other day you said that it's been ages since you've seen them."

"Well…" Jacques looked as though the idea of Sofiya wandering unaccompanied about the massive Paris Opera House was ludicrous, the words 'certain death' swarming around his head. However, if he denied her request, then Sofiya would be unhappy – a thought Sofiya knew Jacques could not bear. It came as no shock when Jacques consented.

"Thank you, Jacques," she said with as much gratitude as she summon. "Rest assured, I won't be gone a minute."

She hurried away without another word, her gaze set determinedly forward, as if afraid that some ravenous beast would devour her should she turn around.

♪ ♪ ♪

She would be fine – four words that did nothing to quell Jacques's mounting anxiety. Beside him, Mme. Motere had moved past M. Herriot and Abrial, and was now happily chatting about the affairs of another unfortunate individual. Jacques's ostensive intrigue was passable, though his true feelings were anxiousness and dread as he watched Sofiya's receding back. He knew that he ought to look at Mme. Motere while she was speaking to him, but he could not bring himself to do it. His eyes were only for Sofiya, who was now but a speck of island amid the ocean of people.

Yes, she would be perfectly safe. After all, she was only venturing across the foyer, and although the entrance hall _was _large, the girl couldn't possibly lose her way. He was being absurd, worrying like this. Such idiotic behavior was uncalled for when Sofiya would be back before he knew it.

♪ ♪ ♪

Jacques stole his umpteenth glance around the auditorium, being painstakingly observant with any new visages that entered the scene. Many were taking their seats, yet none were the woman who occupied his thoughts. His fine leather gloves squeaked quietly as he twisted them distractedly. Mad urgency was growing evident as it pushed past the barrier that concealed his emotions from those around him. Now, while it _had _refused to permit any foreigners from entering, it was still, at long last, capitulating to the very things it served to protect.

_Where could she be?_ he wondered, frantic as he craned his neck to search for Sofiya. The action proved to have been made in vain for the girl's absence was extant.

_Perhaps she is lost?_ he speculated, desperate for any assuaging solution to Sofiya's tardiness. _No… She's been to the Palais Garnier before… She knows where to find the auditorium._

Above him, the lights dimmed. The loquacious atmosphere gradually submitted to silence. Jacques gnawed on his moustache briefly before looking around at the back of the auditorium, turning just in time to see the ushers close the doors.

He faced forward, feeling completely dumbfounded, his mouth slack and his body numb.

The doors to the auditorium were shut, now, and the ushers had orders. No one was allowed in once the performance had commenced. Of course, exceptions could be made for influential people – the Opera could even be forestalled if the person was of enough importance – but Sofia was only a poor little girl, and she was by herself, no less! Had he insisted on accompanying her when she went to meet her friend he could have alerted her of the time. At the very least, had they still been too late for the show, Sofiya would not have been alone. He, Jacques, would have been there with her, keeping her safe. They could have easily canceled their plans to see _Orphée aux Enfers _and laughed at their foolishness while enjoying a lovely dinner at a local restaurant.

But Jacques had not impressed upon Sofiya the importance of staying by his side. He had asked if she wanted an escort, but he had abandoned the notion when the girl had answered in the negative.

He stroked his moustache, his heart beating wildly as he fretted over Sofiya.

Somehow the girl's absence reminded him of Marfa during the time of her fatal illness. He had begun to see his wife less and less before her death, though that was not to say that he had not been present. He had stubbornly refused to leave her side unless it became unavoidably necessary, however, he still caught but a rare glimpse of his wife. While he could see her body, Marfa had not been there. During the brief periods when she had not been submerged in a fitful sleep his wife had been weak and slightly crazed by fever, barely comprehensible as she muttered to herself and gazed up at the ceiling with glazed eyes. It was as if Death had been stopping in every now and then to collect her spirit little by little, leaving Marfa's body – an empty shell – behind until, at last, he had claimed that, too.

At this macabre thought, Jacques felt his urge to panic rise. Helpless to resist, he let his eyes roam the audience once more, perfectly aware that Sofiya would not appear.

♪ ♪ ♪

Escape: the only thought on Sofiya's mind. But where to? Outside? No. The notion screamed idiocy. She couldn't very well steal Jacques's carriage and return home, and she had no money for a cab. Nevertheless, she could not stay here; she could no longer stand to breathe the stifling atmosphere. But where, then, could she possibly go?

Her brows knit, Sofiya took in her surroundings. She was becoming lost in the crowd, inundated by the sweltering musk of the gentlemen and the oily perfume of the ladies. It was oppressive – more so than even Jacques's presence had been.

Her heard fluttered desperately in her ribcage.

_Think! Think! _she ordered herself, but the attempt to pacify her body and mind only succeeded in invoking more excitement.

Her hands were trembling now, and very soon the rest of her body would betray her and follow suit. A pallid, shivering woman would not go unnoticed for long. It was a miracle that she had been overlooked for _this_ long.

_Please,_ she begged of a God she had not spoken to in years. _Please._

They were closing in…

_I must leave – tell me… Tell me where to go!_

And suddenly, she knew.

_Up_.

Gathering her skirts, Sofiya followed the mass of people up the Opera's marble stairway. They were going to the show; however, she had no intention of joining them.

As quietly as she could, Sofiya slipped away from the crowd. She turned corner after corner, taking notice of every detail so as not to lose her way. Two flights of stairs, five hallways, left, left, right, and then left again… Yes, she could remember this, and besides…'getting lost' was located at the depths of her list of concerns.

At last she slowed her pace, finding herself at the beginning of a darkened hallway. Her troubled mind seemed to relish in the shadows; her heart resumed its normal, steady tattoo. Sofiya sighed, taking a moment to collect herself before continuing.

The dark offered an unexpected solace as she meandered down the hall. Strange that she had not thought to seek comfort in it before. It was really rather…pleasant, the dark, when one gave it a chance. To think people had misjudged it for so long! When one expected terror, there was only peace.

From this discovery there rose an odd giddiness in Sofiya. It stymied her, causing her to press a hand to her chest – she didn't know how else to stop the inappropriate feeling. She stood there, in the middle of the abandoned hallway, unable to comprehend the sudden bout of euphoria that had her quivering with excitement.

Good Lord, what was wrong with her? Antics such as running away from an engagement ring and then _laughing_ could surly be considered lunatic. Foolish child! Only a few blessed moments of solitude had been necessary – she could have stayed and watched the opera with Jacques. And what _of_ poor Jacques? The dear man had most likely become prey for all sorts of cruel rumors.

Sofiya toyed with one of the folds of her gown, beside herself with guilt. The hall in which she had once found alleviation had grown cold, as if a hidden wind was fingering the nape of her neck. Shivering, she pulled away from the wall, but the icy draft was persistent. It followed her, now a nagging pair of hands on her back. Was it real? Or was it merely her puerile mind creating things in response to her passionate lament?

Slowly she began to move down the hall. The bitter cold continued its pursuit, frosting the tips of her ears and nose with stinging pinpricks. Perhaps she hadn't imagined it? Yes… If she could feel it, then it was real, and Sofiya certainly felt the cold. The air was fraught with the brittle substance. Whenever she exhaled, she almost expected little puffs of air to form before her eyes. Her nostrils burned with its intensity – and surly bright vermilion patches had stained her cheeks by now?

Then, there was the smell. Death. It came in putrid waves of stale earth, mold, curdled milk, and rotting carcasses. Sofiya clasped a hand over her nose and mouth but still the fetid stench invaded her senses. It seeped through her fingers, crawling into her nostrils to wreak havoc.

It came in twisting, turning clouds – an evil fog that was thick with the scent of the dead. It curled itself around her delicate throat. Encircling her head and obstructing her vision, it invoked a sensation of nausea that sent Sofiya spiraling.

The burning pain in her knees and palms went unnoticed when she hit the floor; only the terrible urge to retch was known. Her insides clawed at her throat and she fought with all the strength she had to keep everything down. As the intestine war raged on Sofiya looked up through the foul haze.

For a fleeting instant not a breath escaped her.

Her heart stopped.

The Angel of Death stood before her.

Skeletal frame, black hood, and that terrible face – everything the books and paintings had depicted was there, everything save for the scythe. But if this truly was Death, then the blade would come in time.

She longed to scream, but her vocal cords were frozen. It was useless to fight against the verbal paralysis, but still she made a pitiful attempt to save herself. Death towered over her, his cold mouth – barely a mouth at all on that corpse's face – sneered at her as he delighted in her terror. It was the permanent grin that all skulls possessed, and this, Sofiya knew, would be the last thing she saw.

She could hear their pitiful cries – the beautifully mournful wails that only the deceased could make – that told her that it would not be long, now.

Sofiya looked upon the gruesome face of Death, summoning the small amount of dignity that remained, determined to look into the black cavities that served as her killer's eyes. But it was odd, for through the cold and fumes there came a melodious susurration. It was Death! Although his thin, dry lips never moved, a sound issued forth. A song! A strangely familiar tune that chilled her bones yet lifted her spirit with its beauty.

At last, Sofiya crumpled and began to sob as Death sang her a requiem.

♪ ♪ ♪

I would like to apologize for my tardiness. While I warned you that I would not be updating regularly, I did not expect the wait to be quite this long. The next one, though important, will be short, so I hope to have it up much sooner than this one. I _do _hope my absence has not turned you away from reviewing, though!

**Notes**

Chattie, Dorene, and Faye – I went through numerous lists of French names before I finally discovered three that I deemed 'most girlish.' Faye means 'fairy or elf,' Chattie is a diminutive of Charlotte and means 'tiny and feminine,' and Dorene simply means 'blonde.' I found them very fitting of the silly maids who accost Jeanette.

_Orphée aux Enfers_ – hooray for symbolism! Those who are not familiar with opera or Greek mythology may not have caught this, so I shall explain. Written by Jacques Offenbach, _Orphée aux Enfers _is French for _Orpheus in the Underworld_. It's a comedy based on the myth of Orpheus going to retrieve his dead wife Eurydice from Hades on the condition that on the way back he won't turn round and look at her. Hmm, is this foreshadowing the future of _A Footstool? _Yeah, it is. I am not basing this story on Orpheus's, but when I needed an opera and read about this one, it was too perfect to pass up. Besides, A. P. Literature classes have instilled in me a great appreciation for symbolism.

The Moteres – it took me the longest time, but I eventually found a name (a Latin one, actually) meaning 'speaker.' M. and Mme. Motere _do _like to gossip, after all. If you are finding the symbolic names annoying, fear not. I do not intend to do this with everyone, which may or may not be evident from the names of the main characters.

M. Herriot – it comes from the French name Henri, which in turn comes from the English name Henry, which means 'home ruler," which is something M. Herriot, clearly, is not.

Abrial – a French name for girls meaning 'open.' You may take that any way you like.

**A Simple Request from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-is, even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna marree u!11 erik n sofiya r teh ulteemate OTP!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can.


End file.
